


Covet Thy Neighbor

by orphan_account



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Dreams, George is Being Harassed by a Ghost, George's Friends Are Unhelpful, George's Soul Is Apparently in Peril, Happy Ending, M/M, Nothing explicit, Priests, Specifically Kind of Dirty Dreams (But Not Really), Takes Place Before Box Tunnel 20, massive denial, werewolf problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As if things weren't awkward enough.<br/>But you know what George really takes issue with?  It's the priest.  He's being haunted by a priest.<br/>A <i>Catholic</i> priest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Covet Thy Neighbor

**Author's Note:**

> I... love this fandom. Why is it over. Argh.  
> Anyway, since I've written so much stuff, I might as well post it.  
> Admittedly, this story comes off as a little, shall we say, risqué, but it's nothing explicit and that's not the main point of it anyway. So... hopefully this does not greatly disappoint anyone.  
> Mostly, it's meant to be funny.  
> And also a response to the Box Tunnel 20 stuff because UGH why did that even happen. This is my attempt at friendly subversion.

One of the nights before the full moon, George finds this ancient chess set in the attic of Annie’s house. He really isn’t sure what he’s doing in the attic, only that he needs something to do other than pace and tear countless paper towels into ever tinier shreds. There’s moonlight streaming in through this half-window six paces away (just to torture him), and under its glow, the tiny plastic figures look twisted and arcane. George turns the king between his middle finger and his thumb and the king’s crude face seems to be stretched into a scream of agony when the shadows roll.  
  
Unsettled, George puts it down and pulls out a pawn.  
  
He hears a creak. It’s the tiniest whisper of sound—George has heard louder spiders. No, _really_ , the days leading up to the transformation wreak havoc on his nerves—and he jumps, all the muscles in his body bunching tight. _Hunt it, capture it, kill it_. There’s a crack from his hand.  
  
So here’s George, skulking around the attic after hours, clutching a now-headless pawn over a macabre chess set and staring down his very surprised best friend. Well, Mitchell is at least affecting genuine surprise. George has come to understand that it is actually pretty difficult to faze Mitchell. It’s like trying to buy presents for your girlfriend. She may act all pleased, but you know that come Monday, she’ll have had it exchanged for something infinitely less tacky.  
  
George’s life is a sad place, if he’s comparing Mitchell’s emotional state with his non-existent girlfriend’s.  
  
“Alright?” George says, voice strained and sort of rough. Growly. He’s not really growling at Mitchell and Mitchell obviously knows it, for all that he raises his eyebrows in slow amazement.  
  
“Alright,” he echoes, and finishes soundlessly climbing the stairs. “Did you just decapitate a chess piece?”  
  
“I think it was already loose,” George explains in a moment of unanticipated mendacity. “I was just picking it up to check. It was sort of wobbly.”  
  
“And we all know how you feel about things that wobble,” Mitchell drawls, coming to rest a few paces away, leaning over to inspect another dusty box.  
  
George glares at Mitchell’s shoulder. That was a low blow. And George hadn’t _meant_ to fling it out the door—besides, Mitchell clearly had bought the stool just to drive George mad with the creaking. The creaking had been horrible and earsplitting, and he’d gotten a migraine. George could no longer be held accountable for his actions after that point.  
  
“Our housemate is such a packrat, isn’t she? How much stuff is even up here?” Mitchell observes wonderingly, brushing a plume of dust up into the air. George flinches, eyes capturing each dust mote in blisteringly sharp detail before he squeezes his eyelids shut. The whole attic now smells unbearably of vampire and dust and, oh, someone is bleeding? It’s George. Belatedly, his body informs him that he has a bit of pawn embedded under his thumbnail.  
  
He should pull it out. He’ll do so in a minute—go get the tweezers—when he’s gotten used to whatever it is _now_ that needs getting used to.  
  
Mitchell grabs his hand before George can make any further decisions. George cracks his eyes open, vaguely offended and wondering if Mitchell actually exercised effort to shield his approach from George’s overstimulated senses, or if Mitchell is just a pain in the arse, period. Mitchell gives George a wry smile that answers exactly none of this, and gently pads the blood away with the corner of one of his stripy, logo-bearing T-shirts.  
  
“You’re not to taste any of that,” George orders Mitchell, because he’s in a foul mood and Mitchell happens to be close to him. Mitchell heaves a huge, put-upon sigh. “I mean it! You have to put that shirt in the wash immediately. I’m going to watch you do it, see if I don’t.”  
  
“You can’t make it ten paces without getting distracted by a crack in the wall and flinching at the Beatles playing three flats down,” Mitchell says reasonably, and George glowers at him again. Just because he can. “Besides,” Mitchell adds, “I wouldn’t. You smell.”  
  
“What,” George huffs.  
  
“Like wet dog,” Mitchell amends brightly.  
  
“I never,” George says, growling a little bit again. Mitchell is grinning and George feels his own mouth pulling into a helpless smile. By the time Mitchell deliberately football-kicks away the pawn’s head and sends it rolling like a marble underneath a sea of dust and cardboard cubes, George is outright laughing. Makes his head pound like there’s a full construction crew under his skull, it does, and he still feels a bit better.  
  
George isn’t entirely oblivious, you know. Mitchell doesn’t say anything, but he always gets sort of… The word is not _clingy_. Not at all. The only time Mitchell would ever cling to someone is when he’s got his teeth in their—and that is a _terrible_ joke, and George is not going to think it again. But Mitchell’s internal clock has got to be even better than his, somehow. As soon as George’s senses start to spike, Mitchell will already have insinuated himself into an inconspicuous corner with a mug of coffee and a newspaper that he never quite tries to read upside down, but it’s a near thing. He’ll have prepared an inevitable list of conversational topics just boring enough not to grate, and he’ll be quietly present, just right over _there_.  
  
On those days, Mitchell the lady-killer—and _no_ , George did not mean that _literally_ —is gone. So’s the alpha male shyte he’ll sometimes pull; the way he’ll have to capture the whole room’s attention like he’s giving a speech, that pressing need to get people to buy him drinks in the pub just because he can, that one sock left lying about because if George picked it up, that would be conceding defeat. He’s no saint, of course—Mitchell’s a bloke and many a day, he can’t seem to help being a fuckhead. But there’s something very deliberate to it all, in the way Mitchell follows from room to room, winding a steady, lulling stream of dialogue between them. The way when George gets into some ridiculous row, Mitchell is there to offer sarcasm-free biscuits, and the way he... The way he so very firmly denies that he’s looking after anyone, but somehow has remembered to do the shopping and the binning and the dishes probably just washed themselves, honestly, because how _else_ could that have happened?  
  
Mitchell’s skin on George’s is setting off a hundred different alarms in his head, each rasp of micrometers demanding all of George’s attention. It’s soothing. He doesn’t have to think about things right now. His senses are blocked by this one sensation, a little. And he’s still laughing, right up until Mitchell’s eyes go black as pitch and the world turns into a desert of sound. He sees the fangs, sees just how sharp the razor edge is in artistic clarity, and Mitchell lifts George’s hand to his mouth while George stares into the demon.  
  
What he’s thinking is: _Mitchell has never let me see this_. Followed by, _Oh God, am I going to die?_  
  
What George says is, “Mitchell.”  
  
The fangs close delicately—George shivers, seeing them eclipsed by his skin—and then Mitchell draws out the bit of chess piece and lets it fall between them. The tiny clink of it on the floorboards is earth-shattering. George’s breath is coming in gasps for no reason. Mitchell’s eyes blink back to the amber-honey color George knows, just as sweet and old, so full of an unfathomable sympathy, like George is doing him a kindness by standing like a slack-jawed idiot while his thumb bleeds on the floor.  
  
“Why are you looking at me like that?” George asks, kind of annoyed and wondering a little bit if he’s having a heart attack. “You’re not going to bite me.” Because it’s true. As an afterthought, he adds, “I may need a plaster.” Which is in and of itself annoying, because it was one stupid pawn and aren’t werewolves supposed to heal faster anyway? Damned arbitrary rules.  
  
This is when Mitchell surges forward and kisses him hard on the mouth.  
  
George is coherent enough to appreciate this: there’s no blood on Mitchell’s lips. George is grateful.  
  
Why exactly he’s feeling grateful, George has _no idea_. It’s not like he asked for this, is it? Why, ten minutes ago he was all for contemplating his imaginary girlfriend and Mitchell certainly has no business doing this, what with his less-than-stellar track record of kissing not ending in horrible dying. Frankly, George should belt him one, not be appreciating the lack of blood.  
  
Mitchell’s fingers coil around George’s wrists before he can do. “Don’t run,” he breathes into George’s mouth, and he’s growling too. Only with Mitchell, George totally believes that his life is in peril. Clearly. That is his explanation for why, in fact, he doesn’t resist further.  
  
They hit the boxes and there’s another cloud of dust—Lord, George had not known there was this much dust in the world. He’s fighting the urge to laugh like a madman, unable to struggle with his senses because all he can feel is his lips and where Mitchell is touching him, and hell, oh god, he feels Mitchell’s fangs. They’re hard, and curved wrong for Mitchell’s commonplace grins. George’s head is at the most bizarre angle. Does that count as resisting, or just being deeply awkward?  
  
But George does not think that Mitchell cares immensely. His hands are off George’s wrists—that’s nice?—and curled around his jaw, not gripping at all, just touching. George is fairly certain that his face does not contain braille, but _vampires_. Vampires are weird and odd and, Mitchell has always been weird and odd, but never like this. George’s mouth hurts, but whether that’s the pressure of such a harsh kiss or the fact that his sense of touch is shrieking bloody, overstimulated murder… Yeah, that’s up in the air.  
  
George cracks one eye open (when did they close?). He immediately concludes that this was in error.  
  
Mitchell’s eyes open at the same moment—and they’re all black again. Spike of fear launches through George’s gut, cold as steel, and he must make a noise, he must have, because Mitchell’s tongue is past his lips. This time George hears himself whimper. His fingers are in Mitchell’s hair (when did _they_ do that?), holding on for dear life. (Mitchell’s hair could stand a good washing.) These lips taste like expensive coffee and the cheap cinnamon candies George has been plying Mitchell with to get him off smoking. No one needs two addictions, after all (though right now George is questioning that philosophy because clearly, Mitchell is addicted to being insane).  
  
Their mouths part and George makes this profoundly unattractive gasping noise, alerting him to the fact that he probably should have been breathing a little bit. Right. He’ll remember that. Next time.  
  
Mitchell’s forehead is nearly feverish against his own, hard, and George leans into it for all he’s worth.  
  
“You’re still not running,” Mitchell says, grinning a little—and oh, that’s it. That’s how his fangs fit into his smile. George feels something in the pit of his stomach go runny, like the yolk of a sunny-side up when you punch a hole in it. He huffs and tightens his grip in Mitchell’s hair, nearly smiling back on reflex. Mitchell’s hands keep stroking him. Over and over.  
  
As George arches up into Mitchell’s touch, Mitchell hooks a finger around the Star of David, George’s amulet against the dark. He steals another lingering kiss and then he keeps George there, necklace tight enough around his neck that George squirms. “Hey,” Mitchell says conversationally—and yes, George thinks somewhat sourly, Mitchell would be the kind of person to start forming complete sentences at moments like these—“Do you know that if you touch one of these relics of faith to a vampire’s heart, they’ll burst into flames?”  
  
George has no idea if it’s true. He can tell that Mitchell wants him to believe it’s true. He’s all earnest eyes and smile that begs to be kissed. “It’s true,” Mitchell insists as George stares helplessly, wanting to taste his lips again. He doesn’t want to talk—he wants to be _otherwise occupied_. “They go up in smoke. Poof. It’s really quite off-putting.”  
  
George tries to kiss him. Mitchell (bastard) turns his head away at the last second, and all George gets is a rough scrape of stubble and a jerk from the necklace. George ends up whining through his teeth when Mitchell fails to do it again. “Hey,” Mitchell calls softly, nuzzling George’s tension back out.  
  
Their eyes connect, and that’s nearly worse than any number of kisses. Mitchell has the star tucked against his own chest like he’s pledging his allegiance, eyes dark and full, aching, and it’s just _not fair_ because George is the one who feels like he’s being set on fire.  
  
His hand closes over Mitchell’s, over the star and the heartbeat George doesn’t know is there or not. They stay like that, locked together, mouths orbiting into a slow, inevitable gravity, and George’s body overflows with a kind of bliss that has no business being there, in fact it’s not bliss at all. It’s terrible, he doesn’t like it, he cries out against Mitchell and hopes that it won’t ever end. Whenever it does end, he’s going to spent years scrubbing the dust out of this place, ugh, this place has probably never seen a bottle of disinfectant. (Just for right now, don’t ever let it end.)  
  
“Mitchell,” George gasps, and it’s over.  
  
He wakes up sweaty, naked, and with a priest standing over him.

\----

One of the most endearing things about George’s flatmates is that even when they’re totally useless, they’re still prepared to be present for his sake.  
  
This is why when Mitchell all but kicks George’s door down dressed in nothing but his skivvies and the wild-eyed look that usually means someone is going to be drained of all their bodily fluids, and Annie materializes gripping a toaster like some sort of weapon of mass destruction, George experiences a brief wave of fondness. _My friends, he thinks_.  
  
And then back to mindless hysteria.  
  
“George?! What’s happened?!” Shouts Mitchell.  
  
He’s got to shout, see, because George has not stopped screaming bloody murder since he found an unfamiliar man in a frock looming over his bed. Because what in the holy fuck is this even meant to be?  
  
Mitchell does not appear to discover an answer, as he blinks the sleep from his eyes and begins to gawk with increasing hilarity. Annie’s toaster falters slowly out of the air.  
  
“Sorry?” She calls, giving a little wave as George runs out of air. “Hello! Hello, I’m Annie. We live here?”  
  
The priest turns to fix her with the same severe look being directed at George. George sees Annie flinch. She then relaxes, and smiles brightly. “Hello!” She says for a third time, hopefully.  
  
Easy for her to do. She’s not naked and having just had an inappropriate dream in front of company. (By this point, George has shifted a pillow to his lap because oh my god, this night does not need to get anymore awkward).  
  
Of course, the universe isn’t a nice place, so the priest informs Annie gravely, “This young man is in danger of consigning his soul to hell.”  
  
“What—George?” Annie frowns at the other ghost. “Hell? You— _what_ —you’re here for _George_? George Sands? Not…?” She throws a glance at Mitchell that is probably not entirely merited. Mitchell is too busy staring rather stupidly at the priest to notice.  
  
“You’re a ghost,” he observes, rather slow on the uptake at this time of night.  
  
George looks between the two of them, appalled.  
  
“There was a time,” George says to himself sadly, “When I was not entirely used to being naked in public. It was a good time. A time of dignity.”  
  
“He can be saved,” the priest tells Annie seriously.  
  
“You’re not even Jewish!” Cries George, throwing his hands up in the air. Mitchell looks over at the sudden movement. George resists the urge to dive under his covers and hide. “You’re Catholic!” He accuses, and a second pillow joins the first.

\----

Apparently, the universe doesn’t care that George isn’t Catholic. He’s now being haunted by a Catholic ghost, and he doesn’t get a say in the matter.  
  
His housemates, for the record, are utterly unhelpful.  
  
“Maybe it’s his unfinished business,” Mitchell says wisely, eying George over a mug of coffee. “You know. To save the soul of a Jewish person.”  
  
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” is George’s answer, because regardless of what dreams his subconscious has been cramming down his throat, NO, just no, and George certainly isn’t going to let it affect their friendship. Barring this morning, when he screamed and broke a plate when Mitchell’s fingers brushed his. That one didn’t count. He got at least one free one.  
  
“I’ve heard worse,” Mitchell says, in that infuriating way where good luck figuring out if he’s lying or not. He’s prepared a slightly smug grin for George’s according disdain too. Bastard.  
  
“Maybe you two will be friends,” is all Annie offers. “He seems nice.”  
  
Annie thinks everyone seems nice.  
  
From George’s left, where the priest is politely clutching a mug of hot milk, he adds, “Thank you, Annie.” George puts his face in his hands and hates everyone, just a little.  
  
The one thing you can say for the bloke—Eric is his name—is that he has got some English discretion. That, and he was the first person to decide this morning that everyone probably ought to let George alone so he could put on some clothes (and half-choke the washing machine on his bed linens). But _mostly_ it’s the discretion. Father Eric waits until Annie and Mitchell have left the room to whirl around and fix George with the flashing eyes and stern scowl. “George Sands,” Father Eric said after that, “I am here to save you from your lustful ways.”  
  
George, who had been meditating over his tea, a headache, and the firm desire not to show up to work today, drops the mug and breaks that too. This is his life. Naturally, Mitchell chose this moment to poke his head back into the room. He looks from the plate to George, smiles, and then throws George’s jacket at his head. “Work,” he declares. George narrows his eyes as Mitchell trots back out of the room.  
  
Mitchell then spends all day gently poking fun at George about being clumsy—which successfully prevents George from breaking anything at the hospital. It also makes George want to throttle Mitchell with his cleaning bucket.  
  
It doesn’t help that every time Mitchell departs the area in any substantial fashion, there is Father Eric, hissing unwelcome words of recrimination into George’s ear. And yes, George has also been fantasizing about slapping a priest.  
  
What? It doesn’t count if you don’t actually do it.  
  
“Do not allow the Beast to tempt you!”  
  
“I am pretty sure that Mitchell is not the Beast,” George says through his teeth, viciously mopping the floor. “I am also pretty sure that the Beast would not wear a lime green scarf.”  
  
“Evil comes in many forms, George.”  
  
Yes, but probably not in the form of Annie having taken up knitting. There were little hearts in the scarf. George hadn’t worked out if Mitchell had noticed them or not, but every time he caught sight of it and Mitchell’s cozy half-smile above it, George got this feeling like he’d just missed a step on the staircase and was plummeting into a pit where, presumably there were little birds tweeting and rainbows and eternal damnation.  
  
It was all a bit ridiculous, particularly when you faced the truth of the matter. George didn’t even _like_ Mitchell.  
  
Well, yes, that was a lie.  
  
Of course George liked Mitchell. He loved him, in all senses of the word, except the one that he’d dreamed about last night, of course. Liking was—obviously, Mitchell was very likeable. He and George got on. It wasn’t a matter of like, exactly—it was hormones, wasn’t it? Straight-up, basic hormones. Hormones weren’t very reliable, were they? Right. So George didn’t feel that way.  
  
Which explained very nicely why he didn’t understand at all where all this was coming from. Really, there were much more reasonable choices of people to stare at.  
  
He’d just spent the past hour stealing discreet glances at Mitchell’s elbow, though, so clearly George needed professional help.  
  
(Just not from Father Eric.)


End file.
